Canvas of Her Soul
by DreamEscape16
Summary: She always wanted men to stare at the shields of her heart; but she never thought one artist from Brooklyn could find a way to capture her soul beyond the red darkness.


**Canvas of Her Soul**

**All characters belong to Marvel Comics**

**I own nothing**

**{This story is dedicated to all readers and fans of Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff}**

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><p>"How long do I have to keep standing like this, Rogers?" Natasha huffed out an irritable breath, flexing her jaw while dismissing the burning annoyance clogging in her veins. She stood rigid in front of the window; her iron-straight scarlet locks draped over her bare shoulders that revealed the scars of her past. She spent a lifetime attempting to cover them up, not allowing people to pick up her sins etched over the flawless ivory skin. She wasn't afraid to express her past to Steve, not when he induced his own scars to heal.<p>

"I'm nearly done, Nat," Steve answered her, shifting his cool azure eyes to her, and watched intently as she rose shaded lips curved into a snarky grin. He was so focused on his art, that he didn't even notice splatters of paint marked with the smooth chiseled lines of his face.

A light blue had smeared over his right golden eyebrow, smear of dark blue on his sharp-edged cheekbone, and smudge yellow on the distinct outline of his strong jaw. The tip of his wooden brush was coated with pigment, and she waited with lethal patience for another color to smear his soft arched lips. Natasha's grayish eyes flicked down at his bare chest, the trickle of his muscle mass forming his graven torso and sculpted with unblemished rippling abdominal muscles that carved into his rich tinted skin that ended with a line of denim fitted at his slender hips before snapping her eyes back up to meet his unyielding state of crystallized blue fire.

He smirked lightly, at the flush of heat on her face; "If you want to look at me, Natasha, look, but don't move your body," he uttered in a firm, elastic voice that worked her heart flutter like butterflies in her chest.

"Yes, that's an order, from the ever noble Captain Rogers?" she teased in a brisk tone, glinting devilishly at his enforced stare he shot on her way. She shrugged her shoulders at the intensity and vibrancy welling in his blue eyes. She didn't flinch, just leveled her gaze with his. She refused to disarm herself as the waves of temptation flowed through every sizzling fiber in her lithe frame.

"Just stay still for me, Nat." Steve replied, and drew out a deep breath, his body was reaching the combustion of feverish heat, and he felt the sweat roll down the planes of his back.

He chanced his stern eyes to roam adorn over her body, taking in the details that were revealed as the amber light caressed over her skin.

Natasha looked angelic, dressed in a sleeveless blue satin dress that fitted perfectly at the sculpted curves of her jutting hips. She wore her fiery hair shoulder length, as it gleamed in the lamplight reflecting over her lithe and curvaceous frame. Her sharp eyes scanned over the clusters of books, pictures and newspaper articles piled on tables, as tinges of city light became captive within the depth of grayish teal.

He recognized she was armed, gun holsters strapped and wrapped over her shapely mid-thighs. A combat knife lodged in the seam of her leather boot, and her cold, calculating demeanor. Her body had grown tensed; she shifted in front of a window, urging to protectively cross her arms over her breasts. For once he wanted her not to be the Black Widow, the fatal and efficient spy. He wanted the real Natalia Romanova, not the actress standing in the segmentation of the shadows and illumination. The real woman he saw through the black veils covering her damaged soul.

Settling his trained blue eyes back on the canvas, Steve captured every detail she tried to blot out; every shade she wore as an armor to guard her shattered spirit. He felt the muscles in his chest ache as he got lost in her beguiling and yet dangerous beauty, "You should wear that dress more often; it really brings out your eyes." He felt his heart skip a beat, and sealed his lips into a firm grimace. He sighed out an abysmal breath, "Sorry, I didn't intend to make you uncomfortable, Natasha."

His baritone was soft and unimposing. He retreated a pace backwards from the canvas and saw at her again, "I intended to state that you've been wearing black for too long," he conceded with an honest gleam twinkling in his steadfast eyes. There was no reluctance in his voice, but the truth, "That's not the color that suits you." He saw something in her that other men didn't. It was almost like he captured her soul in his eyes, "The real you."

Natasha didn't want to answer him. For once she kept herself remotely still, and she felt the stirrings of emotions churn in her blood.. She wasn't a soldier who geared up to the front lines, and fought for people's wasn't the noble spirit Agent Peggy Carter, no, she was an executioner trained to kill without hesitation. She recognized the blood along her hands would never wash away with the starkest form of water, the scrapes of her past sins engraved deep into the strata of her pale flesh. She carried venom in her veins, lethal and searing poison that destroyed lives of many men in her lifetime.

She never grieved for them, she was the merciless Black Widow, the stealthy spider that lured her prey into her webs and struck them down without passing on each of them a chance to bust loose from her stinging clutches.

One by one, she raked them off either by pumping lead into their breasts, or lodging a knife across their throats.

That was she did, hunted and shot down. That was what she had been prepared to serve in the Red Room when she was impelled to go in a gloomy prison. She had her soul butchered into pieces, and felt her heart being ripped out of her with painful, antagonistic torture she had held up after screaming and cursing out her father's name. The demon who had thrown her into the shadowy gates of Hell.

When she burst free, she found herself getting into a world of betrayal, sordid lies and murderous deeds that reckoned the evil to crawl out of the men she allowed to torture her. This wasn't the life she wanted Steve to introduce, he merited to be in the light, not the shadows that diminished honor and scraped away the fragile hope in the hearts of honest and good men.

"You're falling in too deep, Rogers," she spoke out her grim warning with a light husk in her voice, telling him to stay clear from her world, to remain out of the darkness. She couldn't _lose_ him.

Everything of her past that Natasha carried with her was weighing her down.

Steve could sense her put the brush into a murky cup of water; and gingerly walked over to her, "Natasha, what's really going on?" he spoke in modest voice was emphatic, giving her a questioning look. It was unnerving. She kept her lips sealed and averted her eyes from his virtuous gaze, "And I want the honest truth."

She hated when he placed her in a tight spot.

Bitterness left a trail of fire along her throat, clenching and writhing inside her stomach. A piece of her wanted to reveal her secrets to him about her past. She wanted to tell him everything; all the details that were weaved together in a web of her darkest sins.

Natasha took a moment and thought maybe this will be her clean-slate, and finally her red ledger will be erased and the blood on her hands washed away. She didn't care about trust issues anymore; he saved her life, used his shield and protected her from the inferno. She wanted not stray away, say the harmful words, and try to pretend that she hated him for invading her space and questioning her condemned soul. She grimaced. 'Steve, there is nothing," she spoke calmly, jaded pieces were cutting through the layers of her heart. It made her emotions bleed out. "I can't give you the honest truth, because I'm not sure which is lie or the truth, and I can't pretend that I'm a good girl, Rogers. My nightmares would never allow it..."

His lips held the essence of a frown, parting for a breath, but she heard no words intermixing with the air. According to his face, his emotions had been rattled. She didn't want to move. She stayed on standing on her solid ground, and shifted her intent green eyes to the shadows in doorway.

"Stop caring about me, Rogers." she said in the firmness voice her vocals could muster up in those few nanoseconds of silence between them. The look that he gave her sent a brush of shivers along the ridges of her spine. His statuesque body was radiating enough heat to make her feel feverish. "I can't be a friend or a lover to you. I'm not the kind of person you want to get involved with, Sharon is a nice and she has a past without the darkness."

A heaving sigh escaped from his chest, she watched his muscles rise when he released his breath, "Nat, I don't care about what you've done. I try not to live in the past." he said, his smooth lips tugging into a gentle smile that touched her heart, folding it into warmth. He strode closer to her, merely a fraction of inch to reach out his hand and a graze a touch over her skin.

The hinges of the bars that kept her damaged soul locked away creaked disrupting the silence that flowed within her body. She became intensely aware of his hand caressing a shadow over her pale skin, and instead of seizing his wrist; she allowed his fingers to run along her arm. Her body still reminded on guard, acting like he was a stranger, compromising her with deception.

That was what she had been hardened to feel, it's what she dealt with in torturous prisons of the Red Room.

"You don't know what you're saying..." Natasha uttered, drawing out shakily shudders of breath, and her blood twisted with coldness. She allowed her feet to carry her closer to the door. "You can't trust me, Rogers." she whispered, staring at him through the layers of warm tears.

Everything became a blur, and she mashed her teeth into her bottom lip, pressing into the soft flesh, and numbing it with a pitch of ivory when she realized what she had said to him. Her eyes snapped to the floor, and stiffened at the moment she felt his severe blue eyes staring down at her, heart falter in her chest.

"I mean...We're too different. It's not good for you to be around me, not when I have too many enemies marking me down. You shouldn't feel like you have to protect me. Steve, I'm in the wrong business. The past that you read on my file is false print of an indentity Fury give to me. The truth can never be revealed-" She sucked in a deep breath, when a spasm jolted against her heart. She froze when the warmth of his palms bereft soothing heat over her shoulders.

"Natasha, I know." he said, his expression passive and understanding, he was looking beyond her mask, searching for something deeper. He moved a fraction of inch closer, his hands gentle over her scars, and his sculpted chest grazing over the blue satin, his arms never blocked her from escaping, he gave for the freedom to stay with him. He refused to take advantage her emotions, and feed his own desires.

He was a good man who never took the lead when he danced, he always allowed his partner to guide him. Staring tenderly into her eyes, his lips quirked into a beautiful grin as he kept his intent focus on her. "You don't have to run from me, Nat. You know that I will never hurt you." he assured, trust shimmering in his vibrant blue eyes.

Those words lingered in the silence that hung between them; she was frozen like a statue, her skin shivered, but heart steadied. Finally she twisted her torso around and her hand lightly touched the curve of his jaw, thumb stroked over the freckles on his cheeks. The imperfections that he allowed her to see in the dim light, he was fully unmasked for her, real and honest.

"Why me, Rogers?" she asked quietly, unexpectedly and she leveled her eyes with his. Her traitorous heart urging to know the truth, craving to listen to the simple answer ghost off his lips. Doubt crisscrossed in her veins, twining into knots. "You can have any woman...Why do you want me?" she pressed, looking deeper into his blue eyes, but he covered her lips with his palm to cease her voice.

Her body tightened against the door frame, watching him blink as his fixed stare fell to the naked line of her smooth ivory skin from her shoulders to collar bone. She had lost the tenuous ability to conceive thought to command her body to take a step back.

His large hand rested on her cheek, fingers brushed the scarlet curls out of her eyes as he became fully aware of her resistance. He knew she was scared to bring him into her red shaded world, allow him to feel her nightmares, and face the shadows that cloaked over her whenever she became close to restoring freedom of her past. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but instead he leaned his head closer, and lowered down slightly until the halves of their faces touched and shaped a symmetrical diamond and then he caressed her lips, tentative, aqueous and embracing.

Steve gently broke his lips away, whispering a ghost of a hot breath over her mouth, "You're were the only one who asked me to dance, Natasha," he confessed in a pitch of an undertone, his fingers curled under her chin, tilting her head up, as he added, "And that's the honest truth."

A frail hint of a smile came over her lips, Natasha leaned in against his chest, and the ample firmness of her breasts applied heat and coaxed pressure over his chest, easing the tension over his heart.

She was lost beyond his stare of unquenchable fire, finding his soul under the glistening and calm pools of ocean blue, his pupils captured tiny squares of light as he sentiment remained changeless in those few moments of stillness. He never judged her motives, condemned her for the dark sins that branded over her ivory flesh, he just kept on looking at her without hunger, but something that made the fathoms of her tortured soul churn.

Natasha knew she had to get away from him, escape from the thralls of passion burning in his veins. "I have to go..." she said in a wavering breath, ignoring the folds of pain conjoining against the beats of her heart. She gritted her teeth, her clenched over the door knob, "Don't follow me out."

"Natasha," Steve spoke in a gentle voice, grabbing her arm the moment she was about to step out of the door. He twirled her around until she had collided against his chest, the paint stained over her dress, as he curled his finger under her chin, lifting her head up to meet his stormy, intense blue embers. "I want to you something," he placed his hand over hers, and interlocked his fingers over her knuckles. He guided her to the canvas, and allowed her to see the beautiful painting he did of her, done with acrylic and water-color. He had managed to capture every shade of her red hair, the mixture of colors in her guarded eyes-and mostly her soul. She was lost from her words, tears streak down the sides of her face.

"How did you do all this?" she asked, stammering out her words. He lightly smiled, framing her face into his hands, his thumb stroked over her bottom lip. She tore her eyes away, sighing, deeply, "Why did you decide to paint my face on canvas. It was a waste of paint."

"No, it wasn't, Natasha." he replied, softly, holding her against him. "If I had another canvas...I would paint another picture of her, because..." he sucked in a deep breath, his heart pounding out his confession,"... you're beautiful."

Natasha rolled her eyes, indignantly, "Stop it, Steve," she digressed, feeling the raging fire ignite in her heart. She pressed her knuckled fist into the center of her breast, easing the solidifying tension building in the bones of her rib cage.

She looped her arms around his broad shoulders in a heartbeat, blood rippling with fervent heat that impassioned her to bury her face in his chest, feeling his finger stroked gentle along the ridges of her spine. He raised her head upward, and she ran into the crystallized flames of his blue eyes, he slanted his head at an angle, and the weight and softness of his full arched lips drove her quivering mouth into a relentless assault as he devoured her. She felt the marginal relief peeling off her ivory flesh, muscles eased as his hand wound through the curls of scarlet, and she sighed against his slightly swollen lips, her tongue brushed against his own, feverish dominance, warring dance along the ceiling of their mouths, before plunging deeper as she rooted for the taste of him back into her throat.

She needed him.

His panting whispered against the walls as she hoisted her leg up, digging the heel into the wall, and then lift her other leg until she was straddled over his waist, and planted kisses along the side of his pulsing neck, her fingers threaded through his ruffled, golden locks of hair.

Steve groaned once he felt her lips press hot moisture on his mouth, he was gentle, his fingers brushed heat over her scars, as he buried his nose into mass of scarlet, inhaling her deeply. He kept her leveled with him, allowing her hands to splay over his throat, grabbing the hair touching the base of his neck. He responded to her desire by taking her full, plump bottom lip between the heat of his own and sucking on it; relishing in the decadent taste of her as a throaty, heated moan clogged his throat until he was breathless.

When they departed to catch a breath, he rested his head upon her forehead, and looked steady into her dilated eyes, his lips curved into a watery and trustworthy smile as he whispered against her skin, "Nat," he said in lowly voice, cupping his hand along her jaw, and brushing the wispy curls off her cheek, "You never have to run from me," he said, watching the tears fall steadily down her face.

She lightly smiled, running her thumb along his bottom lip, "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

"Will you dance with me, Steve Rogers?"

Steve felt his own blue eyes coat with tears, and whispered as his nose rubbed along her jaw, "I would be honored, Natasha Romanoff," he stated, turning down his arm to her waistline, and guiding her to the center of floor, he was anxious, his eyes were turned down as he murmured, " I'm not really skillful at this,"

Natasha wrapped her arms about his shoulder, leaning forward as her lips pressed against his own, and she whispered in a rough voice, "That's because you've never found the correct partner to keep you standing on strong ground, Rogers."

He watched her lips hold a genuine, trusting smile, and he smiled. The glitter of fading candlelight flickered in her eyes.

"I think I just did," he replied delicately, and kissed her once more as they swayed in the darkness and light.


End file.
